


Baby (It's Cold Outside)

by CommanderInChief



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F, Fluff and Angst, Radiator for plot convenience
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:02:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28192902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommanderInChief/pseuds/CommanderInChief
Summary: Four glasses of airport Shiraz, Three days before Christmas, Two sets of unspoken feelings and One very, very badly thought out trip to Ukraine.What could possibly go wrong?My entry for the prompt 'Snow day stuck at home' and 'Nose nuzzling in the cold'
Relationships: Serena Campbell/Bernie Wolfe
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23
Collections: Berena Secret Santa 2020





	Baby (It's Cold Outside)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Regency](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regency/gifts).



> Part one of two because I am bad at deadlines. Will get fluffier towards the end - promise! Big spoilers but is it really Christmas without a fluffy ending? 
> 
> Thanks as absolutely always to the lovely theseventeenstairs for being my Beta reader.

It was all British airway’s fault.

_ Yes _ , it was all lovely on the surface: leather seats and business lounge Shiraz- but that was how they got you, wasn’t it?  _ Good evening, madam, should I top up your wine?  _ So no, boarding pass in hand, she hadn’t come to her senses and called this entire thing off. Quite the opposite.

One minute, she’s nibbling on cheese and biscuits and the next she’s here. Sober. Freezing her tits off. There’s an unopened bottle in her hand but she has no idea where she’d bought it from.

Years from now, when someone asks her why she spent the first afternoon of 2017 on the outdoor balcony of a tower block in Kiev, there would be no doubt in her mind who was to blame.

(  _ Just don’t ask her why she drove to the airport, blackmailed the address out of Henrik, booked the first train ) _

Her fingers reach for the doorbell a second time.  _ Once more _ , she tells herself,  _ then put this whole thing behind you _ . No one would even know she’d been.

She hovers over the button. She’ll press it,  _ she will _ , then Bernie won’t answer, and she’ll turn around and she’ll go home. Just give her a moment.  _ Let her _ -

The door swings open, scraping on the doormat, making the glass inserts rattle as they’re taken by the wind.

_ Breathe. _

Behind the panel is Bernie.

Here, you could talk about the rings under her eyes, the warm cheeks, the coat, wrapped tight around her middle. Except, not a single one of those things crossed Serena’s mind. No. Her head was too full. She watched with big eyes and thought one single word:

_ You. _

Bernie looked like Bernie.

It could have been no time at all that’d passed.

“Serena?”

Serena bites her lip, blinks, isn’t sure who looks more surprised.

“I’m sorry-“She crushes ice under her toe. Fresh, cold water seeps through the leather- “This was a bad idea.”

“Yes,” Comes the reply, quicker, huskier than she might have expected. Her eyes are dark. Pupils, wide enough to reflect the honeyed street lamps above. A puff of grey mist leaves her pale pink mouth. Serena imagines she can feel it, hot, on her face.

If Bernie wants her to go, Serena doesn’t see it for a second.

An image comes to her, unbound, one of being pressed up against that god-awful wallpaper, heartbeat between Bernie and stone. Her tongue tingles-  _ a memory _ .

She thinks Bernie thinks it too. Perhaps it’s the wine, or the stars or the way that woman holds her lip between her teeth, tugs, and lets go – but under this light, well, she looks  _ wild _ .

“I think it was.”

Under coat and dress and bra, a bead of sweat runs down her back. She shivers. For a second, there’s something else in Bernie’s eyes-  _ concern _ . It catches her off-guard, softens her heart and makes her angry.

_ She’s already broken her heart. What good is worrying about the cold _ ?

“And yet I’m still here.”

“You are. Why?”

“Jason.” She plunges her hands into her coat pockets, feels like stamping her foot like a child. “If you want to hear the rest, you can at least invite me in.”

“The,  _ um _ , the heating, in my flat. It’s cactus. You’d be cold”

_ That’s why she’s wearing a coat _ . It’s her own damn fault. Probably too stubborn to call a plumber.

“I’ve come this far.”

Bernie stands aside. Serena tiptoes inside. The grey carpet crunches under her toes. It’s dire, and she’s feeling just cruel enough to show it on her face. _So this is where she’s been_ _hiding_ , she thinks to a greying wall, a leak of icy water causing the paper to peel at the corner, _this is what was so much better than sitting by the fire with me_. Bernie follows her eye, turns away.

“Jason’s at respite care.” Her voice is quiet, but Bernie almost jumps at the sound.

“He saved up, bought me a flight as a present,” She continues, because someone needs to say something and Bernie- well,  _ Bernie’s  _ started standing in the corner- face to the wall. For a second, she’s tempted to throw the wine across the room, just to see if she’d turn and frown.

“Go and talk to Bernie, he’d said.  _ Exact words _ . He thinks you’re not writing back because he’s done something wrong, did you know that? No? Ah, well-“ She shakes her head- “You know what, Bernie, my return flight leaves in two days. I think I’m going to walk to the nearest hotel,  _ drown  _ myself in Shiraz and mark this all down to too much in-flight pinot grigio.” She smiles tightly, leaves the bottle on the floor, “Enjoy the whisky.”

“Serena, it’s snowing outside.”

“We are talking about Ukraine, I get the impression that it sometimes does.” Her feet root her to the spot. Her words are bitter but in them:  _ hope _ . 

“The nearest hotel is ten minutes away. You’d freeze.”

“As opposed to here?”

“I’ll-“ Bernie’s fidgeting with her hands, Serena can see it from here. In a minute she’ll turn around and her fringe’ll be all lopsided and-

“I’ll get you something to drink.”

Bernie makes them hot chocolate. The little tin of cocoa stands alone in an otherwise bare cupboard. Yet, when she opens the fridge for milk, it’s full. A little wooden rack sits beside the same, dying plant. It’s empty but for three small glass jars that clink together when Bernie picks them up.

“Spices,” She answers, before Serena's had the chance to ask. “Cinnamon, nutmeg and clove. Don’t worry, I’m not trying to poison you.”

Back in August, she might’ve smiled, said that when it came to food poisoning, Bernie didn’t need to  _ try _ .

The broken radiator whines. She looks away.

It isn’t August anymore.

They finish the hot chocolate, move onto mince pies, then coffee. It comes black, with a spoon of brown sugar and a small chocolate biscuit on the side. It occurs to her that since the day they met, Bernie hadn’t once had to ask. 

It follows the same uneasy dynamic as before. Someone will say something and then one of them will smile and someone will look at their shoes.  _ Someone  _ is usually Serena, until she stops studying her boots long enough to notice the sun had set.

Bernie stands, clicks a button and then the room is lit.

Strung around the curtain poles are fairy lights, soft and feminine and just about anything else that’s the antithesis of  _ Bernie Wolfe _ . Its bulbs are orange, a rich, warm kind of shade. Reflecting on the walls, they form imperfect circles of light, the colour and size of Christmas tangerine. The hue stretches out, bathes everything in the room. It suits the place, though nothing so well as the soft, white baby hairs threaded through Bernie’s curls.

Curled up in the corner chair, Serena notices a small, red rug under the battered coffee table. It matches the curtains- almost- and looks like it’d be soft to the touch.

Of a meagre garden of houseplants on the sideboard, only one is on the wrong side of being  _ alive _ .

She’s made it nice, in a funny, nostalgic way. Like you could have a  _ nice student accommodation _ or  _ a nice early morning run _ . It’s not to her taste, but it’s got its own lob-sided charm. With a squeezing feeling in her throat, she sees how she could make this a home.

Bernie twitches the curtains, grimaces and huffs. Her hair catches amber as she moves.

“It’s bad out there,” She remarks under her breath.

“Then I suppose you’d best be lending me a coat for the walk,” She snips in return. A defensive instinct. Immediately, she wants to cram the words back into her mouth. Turn it into a joke that’ll turn into another coffee that’ll mean another hour  _ and maybe, at the end of it, she’ll want her to stay _ .

She says nothing.

It’s Bernie who mumbles something next- and Serena half expects it to be her marching orders.

Perhaps, if she blinks hard enough, she’ll open her eyes in her chilly front room in Holby- having gone through none of this ridiculous plan in the first place.

Failing that, she suspects that a long walk, a good cry and a bottle of wine might get her feeling something more human. Though, the longer Bernie stares at her curtains, the faster the wine is quickly moving up the order.

“ _ I said I don’t have another coat to give you _ .”

Serena’s eyes shot up from her mug,

“What?”

“The flight, it was… last minute. I could only get one bag on the plane.”

“You’re telling me that you’re spending the winter living in a glorified fridge in  _ Ukraine – Ukraine! Bernie,  _ and all you’ve got is that bloody anorak of yours?”

She looks guilty, like a puppy well and truly told-off and suddenly, it’s all Serena can bear.

She gives in, easily. She’d laugh if it didn’t make her quite so want to cry.

“How do people as clever as you always manage to be so stupid?” Her tone is affectionate, teasing, and it’s worth it for the flicker of life that comes up on Bernie’s face.

“High praise.”

“Well…” She fakes consideration, “You are a doctor.”

“I could have cheated on my exams.”

“Did you?”

“Well, not technically,” She shrugs but there’s the tiniest bit of mischief in those eyes.  _ A story _ . By the next line, she’s not even mumbling,

“Promise not to give yourself hypothermia looking for a travel-lodge and I might just tell you.”

Serena nods, smiles. Let anyone who disagrees have Bernie Wolfe look them in the eyes and try to say  _ no _ . The word she forms next is the easiest thing she’s said all evening,

“Okay.”

…

The implications of that promise come back to bite an hour later. Bernie’s stood by the sink, washing the same mug for the third time. If Serena isn’t supposed to notice herself being watched in the reflection of a dark kitchen window, she’s doing a poor job of hiding it.

“So, I take it you’re still planning on staying the night?” She asks, still scrubbing at the pristine ceramic.

“I’ll be out of your hair first thing. You have my word.”

She thinks she might have heard a snort, “None taken.”

“I didn’t mean it like  _ that _ -“ Serena reaches for her pendant, squeezes the square stone between her fingertips until it hurts- “My flight leaves the day after tomorrow. Thought I could find a hotel, do some sightseeing. Get out of your hair.”

Finally, she turns around,

“A  _ hotel _ ?” She asks, like Serena’d just casually suggested she might merrily fly the plane back to Heathrow herself, “In Ukraine. On the second of January?”

“And what about it?”

“Serena-“ She huffs- “You do realize it’s four days before Christmas don’t you? They’ll all be fully booked.”

“What’re you talking about? It’s the  _ third of January _ .”

“Yes. And here, Christmas is on the seventh-“ She tilts her head to the side, looking equally confused and impressed by the lack of foresight- “You  _ do know  _ that Ukraine runs on a different calendar to the United Kingdom, don’t you?”

The penny drops. So does Serena’s bottom lip as her mouth forms a single sound,

“ _ Oh _ .”

“Yes.  _ Oh _ .”

“Well, then. It would appear that you’re stuck with me.”

“I have a spare room,” The words come out a little too fast. She almost trips over her tongue, “Well, it’s more of a box room.  _ A study. _ But there’s a camping bed in there- and, given the notice…”

“Don’t worry,” She smiles tightly, feels just a little bitter as she adds, “I wasn’t hinting for anything”

Bernie nods, lets her eyes land anywhere but Serena.

“Good.”

“Good.”

It isn’t until Bernie pushes past into the pokey living room that Serena notices the heavy feeling at the bottom of her stomach. Leaning back on the fridge, she tries on the idea of it being dread or disappointment or mild angina climbing up her esophagus. The signs and symptoms are all there.

The feeling sits with her the rest of the evening- like infection brewing deep in an old wound left to fester. Bernie seems resolute in pretending she doesn’t exist for most of the evening. Other than a brief mumble as she nudges over the TV remote, she barely surfaces from behind her paper, glasses on her nose and pen in her hand.

Eyes fixed on the news, there’s earthquakes and protests and the first babies born of the new year. It flashes on, occupies some vacant corner of her mind then flicks off to the next story of something brilliant or awful or somewhere in-between.

Three sofa cushions separate two people, one meter and a whole world apart.

If it takes Bernie two and a half hours to finish the crossword, Serena doesn’t say a word. 

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't know how radiators work


End file.
